Free Thorn In My Side by Sheila Quigley Page A

name you half-remember that keeps slipping away and
disappearing back into the mist.
    Recently moved
from Birmingham to Holy Island, Jill was a thirty- five-year-old
divorced mother of two girls. A petite natural redhead, with large
green eyes that could wither any opponent who cared to take her on.
Especially a man. She would go more than the extra mile to prove
her point against a man.
    Still not over
her bitter divorce, it was rumoured she hated anything in trousers.
She did, however, possess a sense of humour and had that rare
ability to be able to laugh at herself – most of the time. Lately,
even that seemed to have deserted her.
    She heard the
brief knock, then the door creaking open, and glanced round,
annoyed that her concentration had been broken. She frowned at the
tall, handsome, dark-haired man who walked in.
    'Hello.
Detective Inspector Mike Yorke,' Mike said, moving quickly forward
with his hand stretched out to shake hers. 'You must be the lovely
Jill Paterson I’ve heard so much about.'
    Please, she thought, but said a confident, 'Yes,' as she held her gloved
hand out, palm up.
    She’d heard
about Michael Yorke, and on first glance most of what she’d heard
was true. He’s certainly a looker, but is he the good, decent bloke they say he is? One thing for sure, he’s
certainly full of himself.
    Anyhow, she
strongly doubted that he was as good as people said . None of
them ever are. Scratch the surface and men are all the same.
Three meals a day, a shag when it suits them, and that’s only if
any of the rest aren’t available.
    When she’d
found out that her ex-husband had a veritable harem, it had broken
her. It had taken her cousin Billy to take control and pick up the
pieces. He’d suggested the move north and so far she loved it. The
island was fantastic, so much history, and the locals were all very
friendly.
    'Oh, right,'
Mike said, taking in the gloves. He dropped his hand and moved to
the far side of the table. Looking down at the body, he slowly
shook his head. A pretty girl, her black hair resting on her
shoulders emphasizing her paleness. He guessed early twenties, and
wondered what her story was. Too young though , he thought, whatever it was, far too young. Dead before the poor soul’s
even had a chance to live.
    'Can you tell
me how?' he queried, looking for any marks, bruises, knife wounds,
but could see nothing. Her throat was clear, so she definitely
hadn’t been strangled. In fact she looked nothing more than as if
she was peacefully asleep, though her lips seemed to be stretched
into a tight grimace. Puzzled, he swung his head to Jill.
    She turned to a
drawer in the long wall cupboard behind her and pulled out a pair
of opaque rubber gloves. Handing them to Mike she said, 'Put them
on, and help me turn her over.'
    Doing as he was
told, with a slight lift of his eyebrows, Mike put the gloves on,
and together they turned the dead girl onto her stomach.
    'You’ve done
this before?' Jill asked, though it was more of a statement than a
question. In her experience most of the coppers would look but
didn’t like to touch.
    'Once or
twice.' Mike replied, wondering why she was such a prickly pear .
The gossip is that she’s a man-hater. There has to be a reason,
she’s a damn good-looking woman.
    He turned his
attention to the corpse. 'Oh, Christ.'
    'Hu, sort
of.'
    'What do you
mean, sort of?' Mike practically whispered, unable to take his eyes
off the horrendous mess in front of him. He had never in all his
working life as a police officer seen anything like it. Bodies
pulled out of the water after a week slow-waltzing with a dozen
crabs didn’t come close.
    'The poor
girl’s been scourged.' Jill pointed to the bruised wrists. 'Some
incredibly depraved, evil thug has hung her up by her wrists to a
post or wall. Then whipped her from the top of her arms, down her
shoulders and back.' Slowly Mike’s eyes followed the pointing
finger. 'Across her buttocks, then down the back of her